


An Artist and his Apprentice

by dancey94



Series: Dancelyn's Tales [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Art, Love, M/M, Murder Husbands, Serial Killers, Urban Legends, primavera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 06:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14443035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancey94/pseuds/dancey94
Summary: Once upon a time, a city of Florence was ravaged by a murderer called Il Mostro, whose targets were people in love. There was only one man in whole Florence who felt safe since he'd never been in love. His name was Will and he happened to be constable's assistant.





	An Artist and his Apprentice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Evertonem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evertonem/gifts), [slashyrogue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashyrogue/gifts).



> not really a fairy tale but...

Once upon a time, a death called Il Mostro ravaged the streets of a city named Florence. Couples were his target so people suddenly started breaking engagements and splitting up, terminating their affairs. There was one man in whole Florence who’s never been in love, which made him feel strangely safe. What he observed was that the murdered couples seemed staged, like puppets, placed in odd positions and left for the display. And they were predominantly consisting of people of the opposite sexes, which the man found uncomfortably comforting, as he never experienced attraction towards women. If ever, he preferred his own gender. The man’s name was Will.

He was over thirty and forever single, which was a cause for concern but also rumours. Was Will even a man? Perhaps he was a wizard, a ghost, a demon? Perhaps he was Il Mostro himself?

Will had few friends and liked working during the nights so that he could sleep during the day and not be bothered. He worked as constable’s assistant but very often turned out more knowledgeable than his superiors, which was yet another cause for concern.

One evening, before work, Will visited the Uffizi Gallery. He looked for an inspiration there, a spark that would strike him and he’d know right then and there what to do and where to go next. How to stop Il Mostro. How to find him. Or her.

Will stopped by a Botticelli and saw a man sitting on a bench before the painting with a sketchbook and a pencil in his hands. Not wanting to disturb the man, Will looked at the painting from a distance, then left. Later that night, he had a strange sense of having experienced pure artistry. The painting, the man sketching it, the sole atmosphere of the gallery. Everything there reeked of inspiration. And yet, Will could not see Il Mostro’s face; he couldn’t recognise the man in the crowd. It was all a blur.

And then, the very same week, as Will was wandering the streets of the city, he heard a strange noise. It was a night of a celebration so there was generally a lot of noise – music, chatter, arguing – but what Will heard was a clanging sound, metal hitting against metal, something heavy being moved. He looked around, then entered an alley where he saw a pickup truck. There, in its bed, a familiar image waited for Will.

The next pair of victims was being slain. Bodies placed garlanded with flowers. Like a Botticelli. _Exactly_ like a Botticelli, Will thought, and watched, mesmerised, as the murderer was finishing arranging the scene. Despite its criminal aspect, the experience was enlightening.

Primavera.

“You’re an artist, not a killer,” Will whispered to himself as he remembered the other night, the man sketching that very painting in the Uffizi Gallery. An inexplicable fascination took over Will and, instead of running to the constable, he hid in the shadows to observe. The victims were already dead, anyway.

Not a moment passed before Il Mostro half-turned his head, aware of someone’s presence.

“You would’ve run already if you wanted to.”

Will felt chills under his skin at the deep sound of the man’s voice. It wasn’t fear; it was something else – something more. Transfixed, Will found himself unable to respond. Somehow, he knew, at that very moment, that he wasn’t in any danger. Il Mostro was not going to kill him.

“I saw you in the Uffizi Gallery a few nights ago. You were sketching Primavera. Now I see.”

“What do you see?” Il Mostro asked, with his back still turned towards Will.

“Art.”

Will’s honesty made Il Mostro turn completely, revealing his face, his whole person. “What is your name?”

“Will.”

“Are you an artist, Will?” Il Mostro took a step toward Will.

“No.”

“But you recognised me as an artist. It takes one to know one. I believe you simply don’t know yet that you’re an artist.”

Will hesitated. Perhaps, for the first time, someone made him realise that he wasn’t what he and everyone else believed he was. Perhaps there was a hidden potential in him, one he hadn’t yet acknowledged.

“Would you teach me?” Will asked the man commonly known as Il Mostro, who in response approached him and handed him a hunting knife.


End file.
